Poetry and Poetic Thoughts


A walk tonight. A walk in the cold.
It enlivens my heart, makes me feel quite bold.
Makes me forget I’m about to fall,
For a moment—I think—I can seize it all…

The snow looks so lovely, there on the trees,
Trembling on branches, soft as they please.
The city exhales, its breath, smoke-steel,
Lingers, then fades, like these feelings I feel.

There is nobody out on the street.
Just me and my thoughts, and my pounding feet.
Where do I turn, make my way back home?
How much longer will I be alone?

Just a little bit further, there by the bend—
Where the ice, and the stones, and the water all blend.
There’s nothing behind me, nowhere to go.
So I’ll stand, like the river, and let these words flow.


Tell me, tell me, little star
Do you know how different
And wonderful you are?


There’s a skull in the dirt, whose empty sockets see
Me sitting beneath the mangrove tree.
It’s blinding white, fresh picked by birds and flies.
I remember – in this heat – how something dies.

But as I smell and breath, I nurse a spark:
A desire to leave behind a mark.
Faced with the assurance things can’t remain
But must pass through in sweetness and in pain.

I meditate – the creature’s skull right there.
All its desperate secrets laid quite bare.
Wishing to be someone other than me
Sitting beneath the mangrove tree.

In the heat that presses down, into my skin,
Into the creeping corpse, whose gleaming grin–
Lurking beneath the roots and leaves–
Mocks our desired immortalities.


Hey! Congratulations!
Can you guess why I’m congratulating you? :fireworks:


Me? I have no idea. :joy:


You triggered the first ever “like” out of Blake!! :exploding_head:


Tom, I like this part, it makes me chuckle inappropriately. The skull’s right there (as you repeat, what more need be said) and your observer’s eye is there too. Your eye is on. Presence. Searing. Oh my goodness this gives the creeps in the best way and not a shivery type, more like a parching type. Remote, and bizarrely peaceful.


Tom, I just remembered a morning page from many months ago and I had written “a crow there on his perch”, your skull and my crow might be hanging out in the same place:D


What… what am I not seeing
What, why do I not want to see it
What of them, of me
Can I not bear to see
What can it be


Wow, I had no idea! That’s crazy. It was very nice to receive some love from @Blake, but I had no idea it was the first haha. Every like and positive comment from everyone on this site has meant so much. Really! It’s made it so much easier for me to (slowly) share more of my writing.

Thanks lunar! :slight_smile:
I almost changed that line, so I’m glad I kept it in!

Definitely! :skull:


the honor! congrats!! haha.

:slight_smile: :wink:


The words are scrambled inside my head.
I wish I could make them dance. I wish
I could line them up in orderly rows:
Immaterial choreography.

How can one word hold up another?
Twirl it aloft? Which words do the tango?
The ballet? Does the word “tap” tap? Yes.
It taps across the page, it taps across this stanza!
One, two. One two. And then: twirl.

My pen is like a conductor’s baton.
The instruments are words and so are the players–
Cello, violin, trombone, cymbal, bang crash–
And so is my pen: pen. I see the pen
And I see the baton and I see myself
In front of a sea of strangers.

And even as I wave my arms and try
To get the words to behave, they wander.
They have their own agendas, their own
Daily routines, these words. And they will not
Be so easily twisted into form.
The sculptor says the image lives in marble,
But words only hide in other words.


You are quite talented.


My heart sings gratitude for you, your poems.



Holding heaven and hell apart
You abandoned us
but beneath the surface
our salvation lies near

Skin deep, next to you
where Gods and Demons play
with cursed love and holy hate
Amidst death we cast life’s breath
Give us ambrosia
overripe almonds and silken honey
Succour for our unclaimed dignities,
for debts unacknowledged and overdue

Drink it deep until purpose and passion marks our lips,
vermillion eyes and snapped necks
their midst
Spirits rise and cups overflow
As we sink to the depths

Twisting green growth
Sudden storms and
Technicolor transitions
Give way to freezing winter
Until life stirs anew
And us with it

Our land, their land
An empire, our empire
Far and wide we made our abode
until we finally struck home

Come, you who love to hate us
Come, push it wide and push it far
Come, closer still
Come until you’re undone

To the depths we shall rise
Cleansed in blood and soil
Sacrificing our own as we go

Again, faster!
climb to the climax
until the sunrise bleeds it
out, out, out.

PS: I agree with Ankh. Tom, you are quite talented.


Not so bad, yourself.


Thank you. Every now and then while writing something interesting flows out.

Friends of the Author

My imagination stalls me
so for a little inspiration
I’ll steal a little of your essence

Memories of shared experiences
First or third, person
Fruits from a garden ripe with
Vividly vicarious variances

And dramas of dreamed days
A facsimile of private premonitions
For the you that exists solely within mine

So to diminish it
To preserve you
To save me

I’ll write about it
I’ll write about you,


I sit and think of a poem to write,
Something to take my mind far from here,
Far from the boredom that seeps in tonight.
Carried, in its wake, a specific fear:
That the words will not come. Talent dispersed,
Divided and lost, cut off from its source,
As dead as the last, as lost as the first.
It’s not only the rhymes that tonight I force–
But – maybe – there was nothing there to begin,
Only a shadow, adolescent dream.
This wasted night, no great fame will I win,
Struggling to utter a silent scream.
Where are you mistress? Where are you muse?
Give me the gift only madmen would choose.


I can’t take the credit for this one (it’s from my current obsession with the UK TV show Psychobitches), but I thought it kind of belongs here:

Pig in the Darkness

Oh, I am a farmyard porker,
All pink and sweet and warm,
With a curly little tail just like a corkscrew.
And I trip about the yard on my dainty little trotters,
Unaware of where I’m headed come the morn’ dew.

I have no thoughts of bacon, or of sausage, or of gammon.
I’m ignorant of pork chops and of tripe, too.
But that van’ll come a-calling,
And I’ll be hauled within a squealin’,
And they’ll slit me throat and 'ang me till the blood spews,
Like a torrent from me neck.

(They say black pudding is the best!)

And the darkness will just take me, take me, take me.
A pig hung in the darkness!
A pig hung in the darkness!
In the darkness, in the darkness, in the darkness!

And fear comes in strums, a lullaby of nothing!
A pig strung in the darkness till it dies!
Oh, Fuck!


And here’s the original “therapy” session:

Actress and comedian Julia Davis is playing the American poet Sylvia Plath, who is “consumed by overbearing suicidal thoughts”. In a desperate attempt to escape her depression, Plath has (rather unwisely) assumed the persona and poetic style of the British poetess Pam Ayres.

Only UK citizens over a certain age are likely to be familiar with the ^cough^ esteemed body of work of Ms Ayres, so here’s a taster or two to help place Plath’s error of judgement into context: